Michael Jecks - The Bishop Must Die

In the cathedral, he would be remembered as a patron. He had provided much of the money to ensure that the works continued to the glory of God, even if he would never himself see the finished result. That was a certainty — at the present rate of progress, it could not be completed until halfway through the century at the earliest. Although Walter II was already five-and-sixty, but felt as young as a man in his fortieth year, he knew that it was too much to hope that God would allow him to remain here for another four-and-twenty years. If He did, Walter would no doubt be a drooling, feeble-minded cretin like poor Father Joshua, who could do little more than swallow now when a spoon was held to his mouth.

The bishop was enormously fond of Joshua. When Walter had first arrived here in Exeter and became a canon, it was Father Joshua who had helped introduce him to all the other canons. The rude, the hypocritical, the naive and fawning — each had been described to him beforehand, and Joshua had been a kindly and humorous influence on him from that day onward. It was Joshua who had helped Walter when the Dominicans tried to prevent him from being installed as bishop, Joshua who had assisted with the founding of the school at Ashburton, Joshua who … It was hard to think of any facet of his life in recent years which had not been aided by Joshua. The old man had been a friend and ally for longer than the bishop could remember, and the idea that he was now so befuddled and feeble was dreadful. The idea of continuing in his post without the support of the old man was appalling.

But continue he would. Bishop Walter was proud of his achievements as a bishop. And the work he had done for the king, of course.

That had all begun a long while ago now. He had been one of the many bishops who had worked to try to maintain the peace when the king first formed an unsuitable relationship, back in the early days of his reign, with that incomparable fool Piers Gaveston. The man was so acquisitive, it was a miracle that the king had a realm of any size left. Gaveston was captured and executed, and afterwards the kingdom fell into a sort of calm. Not true peace, though: it was a period of stagnation and fear, waiting for the next buffets of fate. And within a short space, they had struck.

‘Bishop? My lord?’

The words cut into his thoughts and Stapledon turned quickly to the door, startled. ‘John?’ It was the bane of his life, this accursed feeble eyesight he had developed. At first he had merely been unable to read documents even when quite close, which was why he had invested in the spectacles — but now even objects a short distance away were nearly impossible to discern.

‘Yes, it is me, my lord. I fear that there is ill news. The prisoner, the rector, has gone. And so has the gaoler.’

‘What do you mean, “gone”?’ the bishop asked testily.

‘One of the servants said that he saw them both walking up out of the Close days ago. The gaoler hasn’t been seen since, and no one seems to know where he could have gone.’

The bishop sighed heavily. ‘So that is it, then. The rector was taken to his brother, I suppose, and that means he will have been sent far away. He would scarcely take the risk that I might force my way into the castle and remove him.’

‘I fear so, my lord.’

‘Fetch Alured de Gydie to me. And send a message to the sheriff, demanding to know the whereabouts of his brother, on his oath. I will not be lied to.’

His steward hurried away, the door slamming behind him, and the bishop returned to his contemplation of the recent past.

It was not a pleasant review.

Church of the Holy Trinity, Teigh

As soon as he had seen the clouds of dust disappearing towards the horizon, Richard de Folville had hurried back into the house. In the corner he had a large chest, and he threw it open, pulling aside the vestments and clothing within before finding the scarred leather baldric. Drawing it over his head and shoulders, gripping the sword’s sheath in his left hand, he ran from the cottage.

There was a low, woven fence to mark the extent of his garden, and he took this at a gallop, leaping over it and pelting on up the road in the wake of his brother and the men from Kirby Bellers. On and on he ran, his lungs beginning to ache as he went, ducking occasional twigs, avoiding the worst of the mud and ruts, but when he had run only a little more than a mile, there was nothing more in him. His legs burned with the unaccustomed exercise, and his lungs were choked. He had to stop and bend double, facing the ground, resting his hands on his thighs.

This was madness! How could he ever have hoped to catch men on horseback. He would have to forget this and return. Perhaps there would be news later. He only prayed that it would not be news that his brother was dead.

Dear God in heaven, the thought that his beloved elder brother could be captured, or even killed, was too appalling for words!

All Richard’s life, Eustace had been there to look after him. Admittedly, it was Eustace who had first beaten him, who had given him his first bloody nose, who had tripped him and sent him flying into a rock, which had cracked open Richard’s head; but like so many older brothers, he saw Richard as his own private property when it came to bullying or beating. If any others tried to hurt Richard, they soon learned to regret their presumption.

Eustace was not his only brother, of course. When their father, John de Folville, Lord of Ashby-Folville, Leicestershire and of Teigh in Rutland, died sixteen years ago, their brother John took the estates. Even now he was a Commissioner of Array for the King. There were benefits to his positions, for it was he who had given Richard this church for his living.

Of the others, Laurence, Robert, Thomas and Walter, there was little else for them to do to make their living, other than turn to serving other lords. But then they found that their estates and livelihoods were under threat. It was alleged that they were all implicated in the Lords Marcher wars against Despenser. And if a man was prepared to set his face against the Despenser, he was thought to be rebelling against the king himself. Word went out: all the de Folvilles were to be found and captured. There were only two who were safe. Richard, and John, the present Lord of Ashby Folville.

Richard muttered a swift curse, then set off again, running at a more steady pace, making this time for his brother John’s manor.

West Sandford

Simon walked to the fire, waving his guest to the seat at the side where he could get warm, but he didn’t sit down himself. He was filled with a strange feeling of trepidation — a premonition that this meeting would bring a crisis to his life.

It was clear that Baldwin was aware of the tension between them. Only a short while ago the two had separated with their friendship shattered. Simon had placed his trust in Baldwin, and felt that it had been flung back into his face. Baldwin had, so he believed, placed Edith’s life in danger.

But he missed Baldwin’s companionship.

‘Simon, I-’

‘It is good to see you again,’ Simon interrupted. He found himself moving towards the door. ‘Let me fetch some wine — I will get it. No, I’ll have Hugh fetch it, the lazy bastard — about time he did something. And then some meats for you. That would be good.’

He felt as though action and movement were needed to avert disaster. If he continued talking, if he kept moving, he could block the terrible danger that he could see in Baldwin’s eyes.

‘Please, Simon, old friend … just come here and sit for a moment. I want no wine or water, only a moment’s companionship. Please.’